Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III (109 page)

Aurim’s trail suddenly grew more faint, more difficult to track. It was not that it had faded, but rather that the storm itself contained so much raw magic that it disrupted her higher senses. The crimson-tressed spellcaster gazed up at the turbulent sky, suddenly feeling as if she was being watched. A flash of lightning briefly illuminated the clouds, but nothing more.

Trying to shake away her uncertainties, she leaned forward and urged the horse to better speed. Perhaps eager to finish this madness and return to a more calm realm, the mare obeyed with gusto. Gwen breathed easier as she raced along. She still detected some hint of Aurim and so long as even a trace remained, she felt certain that she would find him.

Through the swampy forest Gwen rode. The lightning created monstrous displays—huge grasping tentacles and fingers, creatures with heads full of snakes. They were all merely the twisted forms of Wenslis’s trees, but even knowing that, the enchantress could not help stiffening each time a new outline formed.

Then a bolt struck the willow just to her right. The explosion turned bright the entire vicinity and set the tree on fire. Gwen’s horse veered away from the danger.

And in that instant, situated between two more distant trees, she saw a cloaked and hooded form watching her.

Before Gwen could refocus on the spot, the last vestiges of lightning faded. Even the fire from the willow proved insufficient to illuminate the area she desired.

Reining the mare to a halt, Gwen turned back to where the figure had stood.

Another bolt struck the tree nearest her.

Now the mare panicked. It was all Gwen could do to keep from falling off. Although wary of possible detection, she cast a minor spell to calm the animal.

But before she could complete it, branches enveloped her from every direction. They entangled her arms, blinded her, even snared her legs. The mare, now free of her control, pulled away, leaving Gwen caught like a fly in a web of wood and leaves.

She tried to concentrate enough to free herself, but the branches spun her around, turned her upside down. The leaves in her face made it almost impossible to even breathe.

An imposing presence touched her thoughts. It said nothing, but the sheer power behind it made her certain that it could only be one being.

The Storm Lord had discovered her intrusion.

Lightning flared again. Through a few narrow gaps in her tightening prison, Gwen caught a glimpse of several figures moving through the raging weather. They looked human in form, but wearing outlandish armor with broad, curved shoulders like tiny, overturned boats and helmets with wide, sloping brims. Pale faces peered out from under the helmets, the eyes all focused on the struggling enchantress.

One raised what looked like a pear with a flower on the end to her face. The figure squeezed the object and a puff of scented air struck Gwen full.

She did not even notice when she blacked out.

HE WATCHED WITH
clinical interest as the soldiers removed their unconscious captive from the willows with remarkable gentleness. He could have saved her then, but he had not decided whether he wanted to or not. Still, she presented not only a marvelous coincidence, but an interesting diversion to keep him from having to contemplate other, more difficult matters.

He pulled his dark cloak tight around him and as he did, his entire body seemed to fold into it, growing thinner and thinner in the blink of an eye—until he was gone.

III

THEY WERE NO
longer alone.

Yssa obviously sensed him tense, for she suddenly asked, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Someone—something’s approaching.”

The half-drake female pulled out of his arms, her gaze toward the ceiling. “I don’t feel—no—I do now . . .”

Despite her own legacy, her powers were not always as great as Aurim’s. He had first noticed the newcomers several seconds ago, but his mind had initially refused to accept such a dire intrusion into his time with her. Fortunately, common sense had finally prevailed over passion.

But was it been soon enough?

“They could be my father’s warriors,” she suggested.

Her tone, however, matched his own thoughts. “Not here. They’d never be allowed this far into Wenslis.”

Neither had to say more, for they knew that those moving in on the hut could be the servants of only one other.

Aurim left Yssa in the middle of the room. Stepping to the rotting door, he peered through a wide crack.

With the aid of the lightning, he saw them. More than half a dozen shapes, all wearing odd, broad-rimmed armor and helmets. The human soldiers of Wenslis. The slaves of the Storm Dragon.

“They’re surrounding us,” he told her.

“He wouldn’t dare harm either of us,” Yssa insisted. “Even he isn’t that mad.”

“We’re about to find out.”

Aurim sensed the spell just before it struck. He raised the transparent, blue shield around his love and himself just before the bolts decimated the hut.

Fragments of wood flew everywhere, many raining down on the two figures protected by Aurim’s magic. Smoke rose from the ashes despite the heavy rain. A few broken pieces thrust up from the stone base, but they were all that remained to mark where once the abandoned structure had stood.

Despite the destruction, the attack had actually not been very threatening to the pair. Aurim had had plenty of warning. He wondered why the Storm Dragon had not assaulted them with more ferocity.

As the last refuse settled to the ground, the armored warriors charged. Guttural shouts did battle with the thunder. Thick, curved blades swung back and forth.

The shield abruptly failed as another force struck Aurim’s mind. He roared with pain, then, using the mental tricks his parents had taught him, refocused his will and thrust the intruder out.

Still, the damage had been done. He had no time to raise a second shield, the first of the soldiers upon him.

Yssa reached forward, palm extended. She struck the foremost figure full in the face. There was a slight green flash where the Dragon King’s daughter touched the soldier—and then her foe went spiraling backward into the trees.

Drawing his left hand across the empty air, Aurim created a blazing sword with which he met the next two attackers. Sparks flew as the soldiers’ blades touched his own. The flaming sword cut through both weapons cleanly, sending the top halves dropping to the wet ground.

One foe retreated, but the other lunged with what remained of his sword. Aurim easily parried the awkward strike, then, gritting his teeth, he slashed at the other’s forearm.

He cut through the armor and the bone with ease. The soldier howled and fell to his knees.

“Get to the horses!” he snapped at Yssa.

“I won’t leave you!”

Before the wizard could argue further with her, he was again struck by a spell focused at his thoughts. The world spun and Aurim nearly tumbled over. Only with the greatest effort did he manage to again push back the magical assault.

With the blade, Aurim quickly drew a fiery barrier that briefly held the soldiers of Wenslis at bay. He scanned the vicinity and saw what had to be the source of the two inner assaults. Behind the foot soldiers, the unmistakable figure of a drake warrior could be seen directing the enemy’s efforts. A high crest that in better visibility would have resembled a perfect reproduction of a dragon’s head perched atop the helm. Despite the rain, Aurim could make out the glowing crimson orbs and he imagined the flat, almost noseless face with the lipless mouth filled with teeth and a tongue forked. What appeared scaled armor covered the drake’s body, but it, like the helm and all else, were purely illusion.

Every bit of armor, every little trace of reptilian flesh within the helmet—was the skin of the creature. The drake was a mimic of sorts, creating the image of a humanoid warrior when, in fact, he was a
dragon.

Why the drakes so often preferred such forms, Aurim could only guess. His father had come up with the fantastic notion that the Dragon Kings’ forebears had not been dragons at all, but rather
humans
who had somehow been transformed and had forgotten their past. Now, if that theory held merit, the drakes were slowly reverting to what they had once been . . . which meant their eventual demise as a separate race.

It certainly explained why they could breed with his kind, but Aurim could not imagine how such a monstrous transformation could have originally taken place.

The drake hissed something to the charging warriors. Aurim chose the moment to alter his sword into a long, burning lance, which he threw at the distracted creature.

The point of the magical lance tore through the armored hide of the drake, piercing him in the chest. The creature struggled for a moment, his arms waving furiously. Then, he fell against a tree and slid to the ground. Its work done, the lance dissipated.

“Now’s our chance!” Aurim muttered to Yssa. As the soldiers milled about in sudden confusion, he and his companion hurried to their mounts. The horses whinnied anxiously.

But as the wizard reached for the reins of Yssa’s horse, a figure dropped upon him. The two tumbled to the ground. A fearsome, bearded face glared fanatically at Aurim.

Yssa started toward the pair, but two more soldiers dropped down behind her. With a sudden, inhuman hiss, she slashed at one with her nails. They might have had little effect against the armor, but as her hand neared, the fingers stretched, grew crooked, and the nails became long, tapering claws like those of a huge lizard—or dragon.

The claws tore through the breast plate, through the flesh beneath. The soldier cried out and fell.

But in dealing so with the first, Yssa left herself open to the second for a few precious moments. However, instead of a sword or some other weapon, he held up to her face a small object with what appeared a flower on the end.

A puff of air blanketed her face—

Aurim saw her drop and his mind filled with fear and rage. Without thinking, he sent powerful, raw energy through his hands, energy that engulfed the warrior atop him. The armored figure shrieked as the blinding, red aura enveloped him . . . then the cry cut off as both the aura and its victim abruptly ceased to be.

Rising, Aurim turned on the soldiers trying to drag Yssa away. However, a horrific gale suddenly threw him back against the trees and only his instinct for survival enabled the wizard to create a cushioning force before he hit. Even still, Aurim struck with such force that he cracked one trunk and completely jarred his senses.

He slid to the muddy soil. Aurim blinked, expecting to find himself surrounded by the fighters. Instead, though, he discovered that they had all begun to retreat.

As he rose unsteadily to his feet, Aurim felt a terrible surge of power all around him. He looked up at the dark sky, saw eyes in the clouds staring at him.

Red, reptilian eyes.

And then the earth exploded as what seemed a thousand bolts of lightning struck where Aurim stood.

IV

GWEN AWOKE NOT
in chains, but the enchantress was no less imprisoned. The soft, silver cushions filling the high, white oak bed upon which she lay went on to the glistening, ivory walls—or rather,
wall
, since her chamber appeared perfectly round. The bed, perfectly matched to leave no space between itself and the wall, adjusted to her movements with such efficiency and care that she almost thought it alive.

There was no door, no window. The ceiling rose to a point some ten feet above. The illumination radiated from the wall itself, but Gwen could detect no magic in it.

At the far end of the bed, a square, gleaming tray held two bowls—one filled with fresh fruit, the other, well-cooked meats—and a glass flask of some red wine. Gwen felt the rumbling in her stomach and the dryness in her mouth. Despite her predicament, she climbed over the pillows and partook of the offered meal. Both the tray and bowls were of pure platinum and finely crafted. The flask and the small cup accompanying it had been molded from flawless crystal, not glass as she had first supposed.

As she ate, the enchantress inspected herself. Not so much as one scratch marred her pale skin and her garments looked as if they had just been cleansed. There was no trace whatsoever of the storm’s wrath on her. In fact, the only thing she noticed wrong at all was that her travel cloak had been taken.

Pushing away the tray, Gwen leaned toward the wall, touching it gingerly. To her surprise, she found it not only incredibly smooth, but neither hot nor cold. In fact, the temperature of the chamber seemed just perfect to her and she suspected that to be no coincidence.

What is he up to?
Gwen had expected much worse in the captivity of the Storm Dragon. Thus far, she had suffered more on diplomatic journeys to some of the obscure kingdoms. The pillows and sheets had a silken touch; the fare, the enchantress had to admit, would have done even Penacles or Talak well.

Running her hand along the wall, Gwen searched for some hidden doorway or window. She reached out with her higher senses, seeking to understand the nature of her prison. Where had her captor placed her? In the depths of his mountainous retreat? Amidst a raging volcano?

She let out an uncharacteristic gasp as the blank wall suddenly became a wide, distorted face that wrapped completely around her.

Atop the helm that covered much of the face, one of the most fearsome dragon heads she had ever seen peered down at her. It was flanked by massive, curved wings stretched as if in flight and under those wings clouds had been set. Both helm and crest were a deep gray with a combination of silver and blue hints.

The lower jaw of the dragon extended down to the nose guard. The helmet’s rounded eye holes revealed within two miniature red suns that burned hotter when they met the enchantress’s startled gaze.

“Our Lady of the Amber . . .” thundered the Storm Lord, using one of Gwen’s older titles. The narrow slit of a mouth opened wide in what apparently was a smile. The jagged teeth and flickering, serpentine tongue did nothing to accentuate that smile. “You are most welcome here with us.”